Entanglement
by Lyra Seregon
Summary: Sano and Saito get entangled in each other's lives.
1. Contact

Entanglement - Chapter One  
: Contact (Sano POV)  
  
He's still in the office, sitting with his back to the window. The lights are all out and the moonlight from the window both shadows and lights his face.  
  
You have no idea why you are wasting time, sitting in this tree, watching him sit there, doing nothing. Strangely enough, he isn't smoking. Just as well. You hate the smell.  
  
He leaves the building. Going home, probably. Another night wasted. Just another night in the long lists of nights you spent in the tree.  
  
You look down and nearly fall out of the tree. He's standing underneath you, leaning against the tree trunk, his long legs stretched out languidly. A flame flickers momentarily as he lights up a cigarette. He exhales a pale stream of smoke through his lips and you have an urge to jump down and yank the cigarette from between his lips. It smells. There are better things to have at his mouth.  
  
You slide down the tree, along the other side, and walk around to him.  
  
"Smoking's a bad habit." You say.  
  
He draws another breath on the cigarette and exhales.  
  
"Does it bother you?" he asks silkily.  
  
"Yes. It does."  
  
He raises an eyebrow in an expression of deliberate indifference, draws another breath, and exhales luxuriously.  
  
It is the attitude at angers you. He never gives you a second thought, never gave a damn about you. You clench and unclench your fists reflexively. Why is it you always feel a need to do unspeakable things to him?  
  
Without really thinking about what you're doing, you walk over to him with quick, strong steps and yank the cigarette out of his mouth and toss it away.  
  
His face is perfectly expressionless. His eyebrow is deliberately arched as he prepares to light up another one.  
  
You snatch at his hands quickly, catching his fingertips, your fingers snagging on his white gloves and tugging them off.  
  
You realize with a jolt that this if the first time you've seen his hands properly. They are pale, very pale, and seemingly smooth. His hands are elongated, slender, with delicately articulated fingers that taper down to blunted points.  
  
They are very pretty hands, you find yourself thinking with a tinge of horror. They don't match his sharp, gaunt face like that of a deprived vampire, his shuttered eyes and thin, twisted mouth.  
  
Involuntarily, you glance down at your own hands. Yours are dark and tanned, burnished and bronzed, rather square, and the fingers seem somehow stubby next to his. Your knuckles are bruised and scratched, your palms rough and calloused.  
  
You turn his hands over; surprisingly, he lets you. His palms are soft, knuckles unblemished, lines etched in the skin lightly. They really don't match him, you think repeatedly, they are somehow feminine and elegant, but the rest of him screams of hardness and masculinity.  
  
"Your hands match you face." He says quietly, abruptly. Startled, you look up at him - it's always irritating that he's so much taller than you. His eyes are amber, flickering like pale fire, flecked with gold sparks, not an unhealthy yellow as they appear from a distance. Dammit, why does everything about him look good from up close? You'd have preferred to keep thinking of him as a vampire. Now he's a pretty vampire. Ergh.  
  
"They look reliable." He continues. "Dependable. Honest. Determined." Then almost to himself, "A good friend and strong fighter . He was right."  
  
You say nothing. Your gaze is locked on his eyes, searching for something. You don't know what it is but you feel that you need it. Want it. He's looking down at your hands, holding on to them now.  
  
You feel a brief coolness winding about your palm. He's tracing the lines meticulously, following every one to its end with his slim fingers, the soft skin of the tips gliding smoothly.  
  
He does it to both hands, then laughs.  
  
"Your lifelines are so short," he says softly. "According to them, you should be dead at this time, week after next."  
  
"I don't believe in palmistry." You say shortly.  
  
He glances at you. He seems surprised at your flat tone - did you sound overly hostile? - and lets go of your hands.  
  
"I can't survive without one in my mouth," he says, almost plaintively. The said mouth is twisting as he looks at you.  
  
"There's a place selling opium down the alley." You reply. "Go there, find a substitute, whatever."  
  
You turn away from him.  
  
"Why should I go there?" he says suddenly. "There's a better substitute right here."  
  
"And that is what, exactly?" you ask, wheeling around.  
  
He takes you completely by surprise. Moving forward swiftly, he grabs your shirt and slams you against the tree. Leaves shower down as he kisses you very strongly and you find yourself responding, your mind a whirl of confusion and excitement.  
  
He pulls back, hair rumpled, eyes flashing, his blue jacket halfway unbuttoned and flapping in the night breeze.  
  
"Eager, aren't you, Sagara?" he says, mouth curved in a questing smile.  
  
"Talking wastes time." You reply shortly, and he laughs.  
  
"You little whore."  
  
You feel his touch, silky and gentle, sometimes searing with heat, sometimes freezing with frost, on you bare skin, ravishing you, drawing patterns and tracing with precision all over you, the tantalizingly seductive contact ever present. 


	2. Encounter

Entanglement - Chapter Two  
: Encounter (Saito POV)  
  
Fucking informant. Fucking contact. Fucking politicians. Fucking government.  
  
You've been waiting for god-knows-how-long, and the informant and contact haven't come. Their information is likely as not to be false, but that suits the politicians; if other people are busy no one will notice their dirty business and seedy dealings. Scum. The government is scum.  
  
Why are you still working for them?  
  
To serve your country, the answer comes immediately. You give a muffled snort and down the rest of your wine. Standing up to leave, you scan the room desultorily. Two drunk men, a woman, another drunk man, a boy in white with spiky hair and a character on the back of his shirt, more drunk men -  
  
Freeze.  
  
A boy in white with spiky hair and a character on the back of his shirt.  
  
Sagara.  
  
You exhale through your teeth in a hiss. Ever since that night under the tree, you haven't seen him. And you rather hoped - and not hoped - to keep it that way.  
  
Not that you did anything that night, of course. He lay down on the grass, and you told him to sleep, because he was tired. He looked very childish then, his brown eyes blinking widely with an unconscious innocence.  
  
"Sleep," you said.  
  
He slept. At least he appeared to. You couldn't resist drawing on him. Then morning came. He woke up. You said, "I have to go," and you went.  
  
You pass your arm over your eyes briefly. The blackness is vaguely comforting in a way you cannot explain.  
  
You wander out into the dim shadows of the streets, shaking your head slightly.  
  
You feel the presence before you hear it.  
  
Oh, fuck.  
  
"Saito."  
  
Oh, fuck.  
  
Another faintly audible, hissing, exhale.  
  
"Sagara."  
  
Some time and a bit of meaningless conversation later, you are smoking marijuana on the street corner.  
  
"Give me that." He says suddenly.  
  
You raise an eyebrow. You start to say, "You're not old enough," but stop short.  
  
How old is he, really? You never really thought about it. You can't tell from his face, anyway. His eyes are young and old at the same time.  
  
"Just a little bit."  
  
You look narrowly at him. He comes toward you, pulls out that cigarette, and kisses you.  
  
It's just a gentle brush of lips on lips, a grazing of butterfly's wings, but you tingle all over, like you received a minor electric shock.  
  
"That's a little bit."  
  
His hands are in his pockets, giving him a slightly boyish look. You say nothing.  
  
"Saito."  
  
You shake your head. You know the meaning of his words, hear the need in the silence. It evokes memories almost forgotten, needs no longer pursued.  
  
He looks at you very steadily, his eyes wells of emotion, almost within reach and yet not within reach.  
  
You don't know what to say or do. He takes your hand, and you follow, wondering. The marijuana has made you bizarrely clear-headed and voices are swirling in your head.  
  
"Hajime-san ." 


	3. Illusion

Entanglement - Chapter Three  
: Illusion (Sano POV)  
  
It's hot. Sweltering hot. The roads are muddy and puddles of murky water pool in the dipping parts of the road. Even the air feels damp. The puddles seem to steam; you can almost see the vapours rising and swirling in the air.  
  
It doesn't help that you have to wear a long-sleeved jacket, buttoned up, and long trousers, to hide the marks he left.  
  
'He' is Saito. Obviously.  
  
You snarl angrily.  
  
Fuck Saito, you think, and then, Well, I've done that.  
  
A mirthless laugh twists your mouth. To be more precise, he fucked you. Screwed you. Whatever.  
  
Oh, it wasn't as though you didn't expect it. You were actually asking for it. You wanted it, needed it. You didn't care that it would be violent.  
  
Of course it would be violent. It wouldn't be anything but violent. A man like him, having to restrain himself on an invisible chain and leash, not being able to act on instinct and reflex - he couldn't possible be gentle in bed. More so with you.  
  
Well, you wanted a fuck, and you got one.  
  
You're not angry that he was violent. It just burns at you, chews away at you, that he could leave so many marks, and drop you in the morning, just going as though you were nothing more than a cheap whore he picked up on the street or from a brothel.  
  
A shiver runs down you back. No. No. He wouldn't.  
  
How do you know?  
  
For a moment, before he let you lead him away, he seemed reluctant. He seemed vague, lost, distant. Not here, not seeing you. Lost in some other memory. He seemed locked away, kept away, in a place no one could or would touch. A place he wouldn't let anyone catch a glimpse of.  
  
Must have been damn similar to be triggered so.  
  
To aggravate matters, your headband is missing. Your forehead feels odd without it. You keep raising your hand, touching your wrist to the hot skin there.  
  
You have no idea where you're going now. Fact is, you've never seen the path you're on before. You gave up trying to find out where you were after the second village. Your thoughts kept wandering as you walked. You've gone through six villages so far, and you only ate there. No point sleeping in some steamy inn, made hotter by the lamps. And with all the bites and scratches on your skin, you look like a male prostitute after a particularly rough customer.  
  
Maybe you'll stay at the next one. It doesn't matter.  
  
Why are you chasing after him? There's no point.  
  
Are you chasing after him?  
  
You shrug. Maybe you want to beat him up, or maybe you just want an explanation.  
  
He might not even have one. You can see him now, looking down at you with that coldly indifferent, contemptuous expression, one eyebrow arched in detached amusement. He might pretend that that night was nothing but a figment of your imagination, a hallucination, an illusion.  
  
It is so irksome the way he never cares about you, the way you don't matter at all to him, while he affects you so, just with a glance, or a word, or an action. You never finished your fight with him.  
  
Did you not dare, or could you not bear?  
  
What is there to not bear? You probably couldn't have hurt him. Not much, if any of your blows even landed.  
  
You've come to another village. It's small, but quite bustling. Little children darting about the streets, farmers sitting on the balconies of the inns, drinking wine, plump women bargaining with hawkers and vendors, and pretty young girls giggling in the shade together, holding paper fans.  
  
You sit down at one of the inns and order a drink. Resting your head on your hand, you look out on the street. A tall young man walks in, dressed in the blue police uniform.  
  
". Your father's back?"  
  
"Yes, just arrived."  
  
"Been some time since he last was home, isn't it?"  
  
"I suppose."  
  
"Saito Hajime."  
  
You jerk around abruptly. Saito Hajime? Father?  
  
You observe the young man closely. He does resemble Saito. The same gaunt face and sharp nose. His eyes are more brown than golden-yellow, and his hair is darker. But the resemblance is there.  
  
You get up and follow this man. He might just lead you to Saito.  
  
He walks briskly, as if in a hurry. It is a military stride, very sharp, very neat, very Saito. Probably ingrained during childhood.  
  
He's going toward a large house on the outskirts of the village. There's a small farm, and fields. Herb gardens. Scented plants growing on the edge of the veranda. The house is very neat, very precise. Everything is in order, no overgrown plants, no weeds or wild grasses and flowers, no dusty corners. The young man goes in.  
  
"Father," you hear him say respectfully. "Mother."  
  
You look in cautiously. It is Saito. Sitting cross-legged on the tatami matting, and across a low table, directly opposite him, is a woman. His wife, Tokio. You heard about her from Kenshin. She's looking down, lashes cast toward the ground. There is a certain delicacy to her features and grace to her movements. She behaves as though they were newly-weds, although they have been married for more than ten years. Saito is looking very hard at her, his golden eyes boring into her. The young man is standing uncertainly inside the door.  
  
You suddenly feel a prickle down your spine. Something's going to happen. Something you most definitely will not like. And it will not be an illusion. Although for days after you will probably try to fool yourself that it is. 


	4. Homecoming

Entanglement - Chapter Four  
: Homecoming (Saito POV)  
  
You haven't been here for more than ten years. It's a long time to be away from home, but then you don't really call this place your home, do you?  
  
Why did you come back? After so many years, why did you come back?  
  
The place hasn't changed. Tokio hasn't changed. Still shy, still beautiful, still graceful. You wonder if her touch is still hot, wonder whether it will burn your skin as it did before, wonder whether her lashes will veil her inky black eyes translucent.  
  
Her glossy hair is twisted up neatly at the back of her neck, her kimono and obi folded neatly as she sits down and pours tea for you.  
  
The two of you were betrothed, according to your parents' request. You didn't care. You received the news with cool dispassion and went to the dojo to practice your sword techniques. You were both young then, and Tokio was beautiful, more so than now. She seemed to love you. You didn't care. You fulfilled you duty as a husband. She bore you two sons, and then you turned her away unfeelingly, told her to raise the sons to fight for their country.  
  
It was easy to turn her away, because you didn't love her. But it was also hard, because although you didn't love her, you loved pleasure. Her touch is so deeply ingrained in your memory that you can remember the exact sensation right now, right here.  
  
Your son enters the room, greets you, and places a jar of wine on the floor. He serves you, and after hovering for a few awkward moments, leaves the room.  
  
You down the wine swiftly and glance at Tokio. She is gazing into the dregs of her tea, eyebrows knotted in a slight frown.  
  
"Have you forgotten your son's name?" she asks quietly, with a shivering laugh. "I wouldn't be surprised if you had," she continues, and tinge of bitterness and something else.  
  
Resignation, you realize. She's resigned to the fact that you don't love her, and never will, no matter what she does.  
  
She reaches for your cup the same moment you put it down. Her fingers brush you, tingling with heat.  
  
"Will I always be picking up things you cast away and mending them for you? Who then will pick me up and mend me?" she murmurs.  
  
She takes your hand and turns it in hers. A faint smile curls her mouth.  
  
"Your hands could fix and mend, build and create, if you would only let them."  
  
Her fingers are drawing, fanning out in designs. It is oddly reminiscent of what you did to Sagara, that night under the tree. You wrench your hand away. Tokio cannot spoil that memory. She must not.  
  
She smiles wryly, eyes still tilted in bitterness. She makes to rise, but you lean across the table and kiss her, pulling on her obi and kimono, feeling her tugging on your clothes.  
  
Is this why you came back? After so many year,, is this why you came back?  
  
A choking sound vaguely reaches your ears. After everything is over, you find a creased white glove outside the window, and Sagara's red headband glaring at you from the floor. 


	5. Confrontation

Entanglement - Chapter Five  
: Confrontation (Sano POV)  
  
A blocked sensation in your throat, choking sounds escaping your mouth. A queer numbness in your legs, muscles frozen together and then melted apart in a split second, legs like fluid substance, stuck to the ground, and then .  
  
Even now, two of three days later, you remember exactly what you felt. You didn't see what happened after Saito kissed his wife, but judging from the way they were tearing at each other's clothes, it's pretty obvious what happened next.  
  
You wrenched your feet away with brute force, fled back to the inn and tried to drown your emotions in several good-sized jars of wine. You lost count of how many after eleven. It didn't work anyway. Eleven hundred jars wouldn't have worked.  
  
He'll know you were there, you say silently. You dropped his glove there. And you saw your headband falling in a banner of red from his jacket. He kept it. He kept it. What the hell for? A souvenir of his successful conquest?  
  
Conquest? Has he conquered you?  
  
You call for a tub of hot water and strip for a bath. You find that the marks he left are fading rapidly. Only the bite mark on your shoulder and most of the scratches across your chest, down your arms and legs, are left.  
  
You wonder, as you lower yourself into the water, whether you left any marks on him. Ducking under the water, you shake your head violently.  
  
There's a knock at the door. You answer it, wearing nothing but trousers.  
  
It's Saito.  
  
You feel your eyes widen, and narrow. Suddenly you are very conscious of your dripping hair, slick chest, and the scratches and bite mark very prominently displayed.  
  
Saito's eyes are darting up and down your body, expressionless and dispassionate as always. You look at him levelly.  
  
"What do you want." It's not a question, but a statement.  
  
He looks thrown, jolted out of a reverie. His brow is furrowed momentarily before her smoothens his face. He holds up your headband, now a forlorn, limp banner of red.  
  
You take it. You look at him closely, wondering why he came. Your curiosity blends into fiery anger and you turn your back on him.  
  
"Sagara - "  
  
"What, here to gloat?" you cut in. "You think you can screw me over and leave me there like a whore from the street, take my belongings for a souvenir?"  
  
He looks taken aback. Not really, actually. His eyebrow is just arched at an extraordinary angle - that bloody damned possessed eyebrow!  
  
"Are you here for another fuck?" You are surprised at your own voice's iciness. "Too bad, Saito."  
  
He glances at the floor.  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
You blink. What?  
  
"I'm sorry." He shakes his head briefly. His eyes are slanted in confusion, hair shaggy and falling over his face. "I - I don't - " He breaks off, and bites his lip. For a moment, you could almost see the boy he had been. He turns to go.  
  
You stare blankly at his straight back.  
  
"Saito." He turns. "Here." You toss his glove at him and he catches it mechanically. His eyes widen when he sees what it is.  
  
"Sagara, did you - "  
  
You don't answer. You don't hear the rest of his question, but you know what comes next. With a shake of your head, and a small shower of crystal drops from your hair, you return to your room.  
  
Now it's his turn to look at your back. 


End file.
